


Heart's Filthy Lesson

by TrantRazber



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Choking, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Nightmares, PWP, Sassy Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:18:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrantRazber/pseuds/TrantRazber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A weary Will tries to sort through Hannibal the man, Hannibal the stag, and Hannibal the dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart's Filthy Lesson

**Author's Note:**

> Special fanks to Kay for providing this fanmix which I lavished in during this fic's birth: http://8tracks.com/kittykatboom/peeking-through-the-veil

When a man like Hannibal Lecter is kissing you, it is a dance, it is an artwork, it is an ensemble. As if he comes pre-programmed with the proper accoutrement, when Hannibal's lips move to devour yours, there is an instinctive crashing of symbols in the background. A string section locked in crescendo, wailing the anxieties of Will Graham's fluttering mind, wild and restless like the haphazard song of a lone violin above the deep cellos of Hannibal's attentions.

The tongue in his mouth is, for lack of a better word, hungry, as a dog might search with wanting precision at an empty bowl. And yet, Will gets the feeling that he is not empty when he is beneath the frame of the Lithuanian doctor which seems to be ever-growing, encouraging Will to become ever-smaller, even though Will is acutely aware of the fact that Hannibal has yet to touch him at all with anything other than lips and tongue.

He is aware, as well, that he is not trapped where he stands, body pushed up against the north wall of Hannibal’s office. That in an instant he could slip from beneath the doctor’s lips and flee, but he has the distinct feeling, nevertheless, that he is, in fact, cornered.

Cornered by heat and something like fascination so close to affection that his sleep-deprived mind is properly overwhelmed by it, but more than that, he is cornered by the baritone sounds of a frantic piano, notes moving with such swift precision it is as though at least a dozen hands must be playing and all of them dubious and all of them at his throat.

—

"Will," Hannibal says his name with a soft smile so typical that it’s earned a title in and of itself in Will’s mind. A very Hannibal smile. Will doesn’t notice that he’s noticed - he notices too many things for it to matter, and his eyes linger on the doctor's lips as he speaks. “Thank you for being on time. I suppose this means lunch went well?”

Last time, Will had fallen asleep in his kitchen in the middle of making a grilled cheese and completely missed their appointment. If not for the frantic barking of dogs and the way Winston was diligent in his washing of Will’s face, half his kitchen would have gone up in flames. As it was, there had only been some minor damage, mostly to Will’s pride and the sandwich.

When he had finally shown, he had been expecting Hannibal to have gone home for the evening as his tended to be the last appointment of the day. In fact, the man was still there, and Will’s plans to leave an apologetic note and be done with it crumpled before him just as his plans to lie about the whole affair did when Hannibal inquired as to the nature of his lateness. The words were planned, the story constructed, and Hannibal's placid yet questioning gaze weighed heavily upon him in the moments that he confessed to his grilled cheese fiasco.

Hannibal asked if he had been dreaming. Will said yes.

Will smiles with nervousness so typical that it's earned a title in and of itself in Hannibal's mind. A very Will smile. Hannibal notices that he’s noticed.

"Uh, yeah." Will offers, skirting just around the edges of eye contact for this response. He seems to want to shrink down into himself more than usual today, like his shoulders will swallow his head if he tries to get any smaller. Hannibal feels eyes on his hands and he does not move them.

"Unfortunately, I am afraid it is my turn to apologize, Will. Ironically, I am running just a few minutes late. It will not be much longer - do you mind waiting?" Hannibal's speech is sharp and clean like a surgical knife. His questions sound like questions only because he wants them to, not because they are. He is a curious mixture of polite charm and haunting hostility so that you never had a choice to begin with. Will has gotten the feeling before that he could ask the Queen of England for her seat and she would oblige without hesitation.

Will is already halfway back to the waiting room before he realizes what’s happened.

—

Will is only too aware of the fact that he’s never seen Hannibal's bare chest or stomach as he reaches for the man's shirt. It's a thought that hasn't really occurred to him before; he's mused to himself how properly the doctor dresses, but he cannot remember wondering how soft, how pale, how smooth that skin beneath his button-ups might be until now. He would be surprised by the way his fingers are eagerly working to find buttons and sleeves if he wasn't so caught up in the act itself.

And then like that, the shirt gives way, Hannibal's wrapper comes apart and Will is met with a Greek statue in response. Beneath his pristine appearance is a physique cared for in much the same way Hannibal cares for all things: manicured, tailored, and presented with an unspoken quality of appropriate decadence.

It is then that he feels Hannibal's thumb slip carelessly past the waistband of his pants, and his fingers move beneath his shirt as he holds Will so tightly it almost hurts. The other hand is on his face, and his jaw, and behind his ears, and over his throat so that Will's curls have started to cling to his head, suddenly damp with sweat.

Will pulls from the doctor’s lips, and when he attacks Hannibal's collar bones with awkward kisses, he finds himself missing the taste of wine on his tongue. In a flash they are moving, Will has wrapped himself around Hannibal and the Lithuanian has his teeth in Will's neck and has plucked him with as much ease as he does all things. And just like that Will is being carried and placed like one of Hannibal's elegantly served meals.

—

Hannibal is late. Hannibal is never late. Is he late on purpose? Is this some sort of childish redemption for his own tardiness, last week? It dawns on Will as he sits on the genuine leather chair provided for him that he is angry with Hannibal. He spends the next five minutes or so contemplating this so that when Hannibal moves to the waiting room to retrieve him, the anger is sitting fast on his face beyond the usual discomfort that beleaguers him and perhaps the fact that Hannibal says nothing about it only serves to deepen his sense of animosity.

It takes longer than usual for Will to open up. Indeed, for the first half an hour, Hannibal feels very much like he is playing a game with a stubborn child who is making up the rules as they go. The doctor had never imagined his little experiment would have such fantastic results, and he notes the way sweat has started to form on his patient's brow, the way his curls seem to droop with the perspiration.

Hannibal is careful not to show his amusement in his face or his speech, when he asks him, “Are you angry with me, Will?”

The question, and maybe the answer itself, is so inextricably obvious to Will that any minute hope he had at appearing innocent when he opens his mouth next evaporates with the way his expression remains the picture of pissed.

" _What would give you that impression, Doctor?_ ” Will snaps. He surprises himself with the bitterness attached to his words, and shifts uncomfortably as necessary to make up for it.

Hannibal is idly studying a book written by someone famous and dead, apparently more consumed with it than the session with Will - the one which he delayed in a petty act of retaliation. Will shifts more, and rubs at the back of his neck.

"You are unusually tight-lipped today." If Hannibal is upset by Will’s attitude, he shows it only in the tightening in his throat. “Is there something in particular you would like to talk about?”

—

Will's hands scramble for purchase on the chaise lounge, and he can't remember where most of his clothes went save for the boxers hanging loosely at his ankle. All it takes is a little flick of his foot and they're pooled on the floor.

It takes a moment more than it ought to to realize the weight pressing down on top of him is Hannibal, his skin hot and pink from whatever attention Will must have been offering. When Hannibal rears up from his ravenous kisses, he very much resembles a feasting lion lifting it's mouth from a carcass, and Will can see every smoldering red tooth mark and finger line that screams his responsibility.

Hannibal's face is flushed and yet his expression is the picture of poise with bitten lips. He looks at Will curiously and his lips move like he's speaking but Will's attention is pulled elsewhere as he feels fingers on his cock.

The words Hannibal might've said turn into clouds of nothing in the space around his head, and he can feel a rumble in his chest beneath the shiver of pleasure that runs up his spine which means he must've replied.

Hannibal's eyes are clouded with lust so that Will has to bite into his own fingers to keep himself from looking down at them, from coming into his mouth just like that. The doctor sucks him thoroughly, with the loving attention Will has seen him give to a cutlet before tossing it in the pan.

Hannibal's fingers push into him so easily - Will has rushed flashbacks of the sound of a cap popping and the delicious image of Hannibal slicking two fingers one by one and he realizes the sound he's hearing are his own whimpers. His hips have begun to twitch and thrust in search of deeper contact, for more of that sweet, full feeling.

—

Will looks up from where he had been studying carpet fibers on the other side of the room to give Hannibal an answer likely equally as sassy as before, and when he does, he realizes that Hannibal's eyes are locked on him from behind the back of a book written by someone famous and dead.

Will's gaze darts away like a startled fish, or a shamed dog.

"N-no. Nothing." Will bumbles out, the stutter taking him by surprise. For a moment, he thinks someone else has said it - but then, no, it was him.

Hannibal is quiet. Nervous fingers pick at his clothing as he lets his gaze crawl back over Hannibal's office and it feels like years until they find the therapist, again.

Hannibal's eyes are still on him, smoldering like cigarette burns and there's an instant of pure nothingness before those eyes are on him again only now there's the sound of hooves on the hardwood. He hears Hannibal speak and it is so loud he wonders if he didn't hear it from within.

Will feels the familiar feeling of terror shake down his spine as the stag takes a step in his direction. Cornered.

"Will."

—

"Will-"

Hannibal breathes his name like a prayer, quiet and soft into Will's ear. Will has the feeling for a second that even so intimate, it was not said for him, but he answers it still with a hungry moan beyond any he'd heard out of himself before. Hannibal fucks him on the chaise lounge, slow and steady, with a predictable pace and his hands anywhere they can find so long as they're on Will. He feels fingers on his hip, tight enough to bruise, encouraging him to follow their tug towards Hannibal's cock.

Will's forehead is slippery against the leather of the backrest on the chaise lounge. His fingers curl round the side of it, his other hand grips the armrest. He feels hands on his cock and they pull a string of whimpers from him like turning on a faucet.

His lips move again, with more purpose than to whine with pleas for more, but he can't tell what words he's saying; he's too focused on the way his throat feels for being so long open, the way his hips buck into Hannibal's hand, the bittersweet feeling that shoots through him each time he feels that singing clap of skin on skin.

Will can feel the hand on his hip tighten at the same time as the one on his cock, and he knows that they're there - they have to be - but there's a feeling like a hand on his throat, too, and this time when he feels that familiar streak of terror he comes, hard, as though the breath is being sucked from him with every second of searing pleasure.

—

When Will wakes, his bed is empty. The dogs have all fled to darker, less turbulent corners of the house, and his hair is wild. He heaves, coughs, and splutters into the darkness, cutting the otherwise tranquil soundtrack of Wolf Trap at the witching hour, all crickets and frogs and dog snores as he gasps to regain breath.

Will brings an unsteady hand to his thigh and watches it tremble under his touch, an embarrassment he hasn't suffered since middle school. His throat feels dry, like he couldn't talk even if he wanted to, and he finds himself absently fingering his throat. There's an aching on his hips, pleasant and familiar, but when he tries to think too long on it, his breath begins to catch in his chest again - so, he doesn't.

Instead, he puts on a fresh pair of boxers and a new shirt, some slippers, a bathrobe, and climbs into his car.

It's only when he hears the sound of the engine dying beneath his fingers, with the sun peaking up gray and misty over the horizon, that he finds he's driven himself to Hannibal Lecter's house.

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS MY FIRST FIC PLEZ BE GENTLE :C
> 
> Also in my headcanon, Hannibal swallows and tightens his throat when he's turned on. Just sayin'.


End file.
